


Downpour

by Dustbunnygirl



Series: Tales of the Bard - Reggie's Story [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-03
Updated: 2007-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8008969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Downpour ,9 of 10<br/>Prompt:Umbrella, "the 10s" challenge.<br/>Fandom: n/a<br/>Pairing: Dahlia/Reggie<br/>Rating: PG, at the worst <br/>Word count: 1,415<br/>Warnings: <br/>Disclaimer: These characters are entirely owned by moi and come from my still untitled, unpublished, mostly second drafted Monster Book of the Unholy. They do not play well with others. The only person to blame for them is, unfortunately, me. However, blame legal_padawan for the fact this story was written at all, as she twisted my arm into this challenge of hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downpour

That’s all it ever took: just one good gust of wind to turn a perfectly good umbrella into modern art.

September roared in like March’s lion, full of bluster and the promise of cool nights and dead leaves. It brought rain with it, pelting sheets of it that battered car windows and overflowed the sewer drains. Hard winds turned the flat streets into wind tunnels. Skirts became a hazard to public modesty. Hats took own minds of their own. Thunder echoed through Lawrence like a heavy fist on a wooden door. Fall’s coming, it said. Open up or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow the house in.

In retrospect, it wasn’t the best day to get a craving for the pita bread at the Mad Greek, but Dahlia’s stomach had demanded it and there was no attempt at reasoning with that particular organ. The rain had stopped around noon and she thought they - meaning her and Reggie, as the others refused to wander three feet from the apartment door for fear of melting in the downpour – would have plenty of time to make it the few blocks to the restaurant. Reggie was less confident and grabbed Eva’s umbrella from the closet before they left. Dahlia insisted it was unnecessary, that she just knew they’d arrive at the restaurant safe and dry, but he clung to the weather beaten mangle of black canvas and plastic and spindly metal framework as if it were the last thing on Earth capable of protecting him from a disastrous fate.

Half a block from the apartment it started pouring down rain. The umbrella lasted through one good blow before the wind folded it inwards and pushed it out of Reggie’s hands and off into the clouded blue yonder.

Soaked to the bone and shivering, Reggie and Dahlia huddled in the doorway of La Parilla, a Latin American restaurant just a few doors down from their building, and watched passing cars kick up two foot sprays of water as they pushed down the street. Children in the restaurant pressed their noses to the glass and stared, wide-eyed, at the debris rushing past in the mini-flood. Once in awhile a pair or group of people nearly as soaked as Reggie and Dahlia were would rush by on their way to shelter. A few brave souls darted out of restaurants and shops to make mad dashes to their cars. But most were sane enough not to venture out into the storm. 

Most, of course, not including the two shivering in the doorway.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go for something spicy?” Reggie asked, looking back over his shoulder at the warm, dry restaurant beyond their shelter. “Since we’re here, that is.”

“I don’t know. Let me ask.” Dahlia made a series of grumbling sounds, then lowered her ear in the direction of her stomach. When she straightened up, she shook her head. “Nope, sorry. Says it did spicy two days ago. Now it wants pita.”

“Contrary, hard-headed fae…You realize your stomach will one day be the death of us,” Reggie said as he slid an arm around her shoulders. Dahlia curled in against him without hesitation or further invitation, despite the fact he was as drenched as she was. Body heat has its advantages, she thought to herself as she watched the rain continue to pummel the ground. And she didn’t mind sharing his at all, now that she thought about it. 

Lately she looked for any excuse to invade his personal space. She’d taken it for granted before, how nicely his shoulder supported her head or the way his arm fit so well around her when he would pull her in for an abbreviated hug. Everything felt different, looked different since the “fond” talk. How different things were she hadn’t tried to find out, but something had changed. It was just a matter of mapping out the what and the how and the how much.

“You must be hungry.” A gentle nudge of her shoulder and Reggie’s laugh-laced words cut through her thoughts and tugged her back to the rain-soaked present. 

“Huh?”

“You were…what’s the phrase I want?” He paused for a minute, perusing the handful of useful slang in his vocabulary. “Oh, right. Spacing out on me. Imagined you were daydreaming about mountainous piles of pita bread. Any minute you’d be drooling and glassy eyed.”

“I daydream about things other than food, you know,” she said, no attempt at all made to withhold her pout. Instead of the sympathy she expected she found nothing but challenge in the former ferret king’s eyes.

“Is that so? And what else, pray tell, do you daydream about?”

“You should never talk about a daydream,” she said, looking toward the street again. The downpour was letting up, downgrading itself from “Biblical Flood” to something closer to “rain shower.”

“Silly old wives’ tale. Hardly any truth to it.” 

“The rain’s let up. We should run while the running’s good.” 

As Dahlia turned to make a run for it, Reggie placed a hand on each of Dahlia’s shoulders and turned her to face him. Though the grip was gentle, it was persistent and left little room for doubt. There would be no squirming away.

“You did broach the subject, you know. Would almost seem to indicate it was something you wanted to talk about.”

“And as a woman, I’m allowed to change my mind. So there."

Reggie rolled his eyes, but released his hold on her shoulders. "All right, Lady Mystery. Keep your secrets. Meanwhile, let's make a break for it while we can. Come on." With a tug to her hand, Reggie pulled her out of the doorway and took off on a run down the street. They didn't stop until they reached the corner at 9th and Mass and a traffic light impeded their progress. Rain continued to fall, soft and cool as it pattered against soaked skin and clothes alike. 

Dahlia closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky and let the fat drops splatter against her forehead and roll down her cheeks. Her blush cooled a drop at a time, the nervousness from a moment before washed away with each cascading drip. She couldn’t help it, really. Snowflakes, raindrops, falling leaves…the part of her that was perpetually child-like, that deepest, brightest fae corner of her, couldn’t let a leaf or flake or drop be wasted. It was the same part of her that encouraged jumping into puddles in brand new shoes or making mud pies in her freshly ironed Sunday best. The part that her father cheered on without regret and that her mother dreaded and blamed on her father. 

When she opened her eyes she found Reggie watching her, a smile full of wonder and amusement and some secret little twist secured firmly on his damp face. Dahlia swiped the water away from her eyes and cheeks and tried to dry her hands on the thighs of her jeans without much success. They were as soaked as the rest of her.

“What?” she asked when the staring and smiling continued. Reggie shook his head and cupped her chin in his cold right hand. While his thumb brushed stray raindrops from her cheek he urged her head to tilt to the right, then the left, then the right again. Her lips parted, a question waiting just on the other side of her tongue. That’s when he bent in, cutting her off with a soft, rain-damp press of his lips. It was a gentle kiss, a prelude; as restrained as starched white gloves and chaperoned walks in ivy-tented gardens. A caress of lips, nothing asked for or demanded, nothing taken but a sigh that escaped when he pulled away. Even then, his hand still cupped her chin, his other hovering near her back as if on call in case she wavered on her feet. 

Neither spoke at first. The light turned and the ‘Walk’ sign flashed and all but the hand near Dahlia’s back dropped away, and that took to her elbow instead. With a gentle nudge it urged her forward, across 9th Street. When they stopped at the light to cross Mass, Dahlia finally regained composure enough to smile.

“My turn to ask what,” Reggie said when he caught the look on her face.

“Nothing really.” She slid her arm from his hold and replaced her elbow with her hand. “That’s exactly what I was daydreaming about.”


End file.
